


After The End

by Abadhobbit



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mixed Media
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-10-01 04:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17237801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abadhobbit/pseuds/Abadhobbit
Summary: A series of one shots highlighting the events and lives of characters during and after the war with the Others. A look into the future heavily featuring Sansa Stark/Sandor Clegane, although with Jon/Danaerys and a full cast of characters thrown in. Mixed media, featuring some show lore and some book. Admittedly likely going to be happier in tone than George R. R. Martin intends.





	1. A Dream of Spring

The moans cascaded down the stone hallway, crashing over Sandor Clegane and threatening to drown him. He felt the sound reverberate across his chest and settle deep within. They were coming faster now. Faster and harder and more terrifying with each minute. He was not a weak man nor an inexperienced one. He had heard the dying wails of hundreds of men at once. He had faced screeching hordes of endless undead. He had even heard the sizzle and pop of his own flesh melting from his face while his panicked scream spilled from seared lips. Yet he would return to any of those moments gladly rather than face this night again.

"The Mother watches over her," murmured the Septa from the corner. Sandor felt a loud snort escape him. The Septa startled and dared to glance up at him from her incessant needlepoint. This one was young. Younger than any he had recalled seeing in his time, though admittedly he had never paid them much mind. She had undoubtedly turned to the Faith when the nights had lengthened and the cold deepened. Perhaps her parents had died. A husband, even. Maybe she held her own children as they slowly died of starvation and fright during the long dark. He could see how a person would turn to religion out of sheer desperation to believe there was a point to their pain. Did it comfort her to whisper nonsense into thin air? Did she ever question how devotion had not swayed the Gods to save over half the population lost in the Long Dark? Likely she wept with relief instead and thanked them gratefully to see another sunrise again. He wanted to shout at her that the Mother was not watching over anyone. He wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her while yelling that the sacrifice of men just like him had saved her for another day of pointless embroidery, and if any Gods gave a damn about it they had not dared show their face then or before or since. 

Instead a moan started up again behind the closed door at the end of the wall. Sandor dropped his head and pressed the heel of his hands to his eyes until colors burst behind them. The sound began to morph into nearly a scream. It raked across the burned man's nerves and tore at the heart of him. He could not survive this. Too much of him was in that room locked away from him. Too much of his life was on the line while he sat helplessly aside. A battle he could not fight.

The door swung open abruptly, the screaming increasing in intensity, before the mature Septa Della stepped out and shut it swiftly behind her. Sandor stood, startling the young woman next to him once again. "What's happening to her?" he barked. 

The elder Septa ignored him. "Septa Nelia. Please go fetch more water and cloth for me. Immediately." The woman was up and gone with a swiftness Sandor would not have guessed. It occurred to him she likely hated sitting there listening as much as he did, though certainly for different reasons. Then Septa Della turned her stern gaze toward him directly. Unusual behavior. Even now many could not quite dare look upon his burned face completely. This woman however seemed entirely disinterested in his intimidating visage or even his distress. He found that nearly comforting. 

"The Lady is progressing. These things take time. It does appear perhaps this child is... unusually large. However it is entirely common for a first time mother to struggle to bring her child forth. It is a woman's battle, after all, and she is passing from Maiden to Mother in a fashion." Noticing Sandor's furrowing brow, the Septa softened slightly. "She is a strong woman, and this is the way of life. She will be fine. Pray and be patient." The water and new linens then arrived, and both women scurried away behind the awful door at the end of the hall. Sandor was alone.

The hours dragged by. The sun set on an already short day. It was still winter. The season of death. The season of cold and misery and darkness. Life could not thrive in winter. A child should not come into this world in winter. 'Winter's Child, Full of Woe' stumbled across his brain, a fragment of some folk wisdom stored away. Sandor wished, not for the first time, that none of this had happened. They had been happy together. Truly happy. He had never thought to have a wife. Love had been burned out of him the same day his brother shoved his face into the coals. He had felt since then to be a shell of a man. He functioned. He woke up every day and did horrible things for even worse people all so he could throw himself into drink and women and his bed at the end of the night. The Hound they had called him. And so he acted like an animal, and he waited for the day he could rip out his brother's throat before likely cutting his own in some back alley as a reward for revenge well done. 

Even in the Long Night, their Great War, the Last Battle, and whatever other nonsense the bards called it now, he had not hoped to live for more. Sandor had really only hoped then to die a good death and not be thought a coward. Perhaps a few good acts to balance the scales, not that he thought he ever really could at that point. He had manage to slay the Mountain himself. A sword straight through his monstrous mouth and out the back of his head. A lifetime of atrocities now reflected in the flesh, he had felt a fraction of the joy and relief he expected at the death. If only his brother had still been a man. If only there weren't even greater monsters in the world now. Maybe then the act would have fulfilled him. Instead he felt empty and joyless as he did not bother to clean his sword before returning to death dealing. 

He could not recall how he filled his years or how many he had killed or even the faces of his family, long since dead. But he remembered every burning detail of the beautiful woman with the red hair. Time had likely tainted his thoughts. In reality he knew he had not looked up Sansa Stark with any fondness or even interest when first they met. But that girl could not be said to be the woman she was today. They were separate people, as different as summer and winter, and the child bride of Tyrion Lannister was not the Lady of Winterfell. When he had gazed upon her again in the dark hall of Winterfell, her fiery hair lit up by candlelight, the mature angles of her face illuminated, he had felt what must have been the sliver of a soul he had left immediately pull to be with her. His little bird a bird no longer, but a glorious phoenix who had risen from the ashes of her house. She was fierce and clever, and she looked upon him with a fondness he had not expected. And so the burned man was drawn to fire once more. 

An agonized scream echoed across the hall. It was nearly constant now. He could hear that her throat was raw, her energy waning. The scream had life in it, but he felt it slipping away from her. He had feared this from the start. That he would be the death of her in the end. A man like the Hound could not do what he had done and live a happy life. The world could not allow it. The Gods could not allow it.

Sandor launched himself to his feet and tore out of the room as quickly as he could. His hip ached, a battle wound that would never heal, but he could hardly feel it as he fled down the halls of the castle. Winterfell was not quite rebuilt, but it was still massive and exhausting to traverse. Yet despite its size he did not cross another person. Had anyone seen the haunted look on his face, they would have ran away anyway.

Sandor relished the crunch of the snow under his feet and did not slow as he made it finally outside. He pulled the cold air into his billowing lungs. He had not exerted himself to a great extent, yet his chest felt tight and his breath short. He could not take a deep enough breath and felt himself plowing onward, eyes focused only on his goal. He swore he could hear another scream in the night, and a moan to match it came from his own lips. He could not lose her. He couldn't. Let the child die and let her live. Let it have broken the parts of her able to bear child and let his seed never quicken again. He was no father. He was barely a man. He was nothing without her, and it was not her fault she had loved him.

Reaching his goal, Sandor threw himself in front of the Weirwood tree. The Stark's Godswood. The holy place of the faith his wife's family held dear. He had never come here alone. He had never even come at all, choosing to avoid the place out of discomfort and disinterest. The Weirwood was an ugly and twisted thing. But then again, so was he. Sandor tried to slow his breathing as knelt next to the pool, in front of the tree, under the night sky where any Gods or men could watch should they care enough. This was not his place. But it was hers. And while he had no faith in the Seven, he knew there were deeper and older magics than they. If he was to save a Stark, he needed to speak with the Old Gods of the Starks. And so Sandor Clegane, the Hound, a broken and remade man, pressed his forehead to the Weirwood and thought long and hard about the love of his life, Sansa Stark, and every moment they had shared and how much he needed her. And he prayed.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Thank you very much for reading. I intend to continue with stories of before the war and after as a series of short tales. I definitely will end up mixing up parts of the books and TV show depending on which parts I feel suit the story best. I am very new to writing and would appreciate any constructive criticism at all. I fully acknowledge this will likely not be as dark and dreary as George R. R. Martin intends the end of the series to be. I hope you have a great New Year!


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa Stark found a single snowflake far above her, so far she could just barely see it against a background of unforgiving gray, and traced its peaceful descent to the ground. Snow and ice were constant companions now. Her little flake came with thousands of brothers and sisters, all calmly yet purposefully coating the grounds of Winterfell. White and gray and brown all around, indefinitely. Eternally, maybe. As her snowflake landed silently to be swallowed up among its companions, Sansa wondered if it felt more like coming home or like dying. 

Her reverie was interrupted by a Valyrian dagger carving its way into the trunk of a tree nearby. Not so nearby that it was a threat. Not so far that her automatic flinch was unwarranted. Arya had never been patient, and today was more trying than most. 

"Where are they?", her younger sister huffed as she went to tug her new toy from her unwitting victim. Had it not been Valyrian steel, the dagger would have been the tree's for all the rest of its day. But as it was Valyrian steel, Arya slid the weapon smoothly from deep inside with barely a flick of her wrist. Insult to injury to the tree, no doubt.

"Close," Bran stated from his chair. Arya and Sansa exchanged a brief glance. Bran spoke so rarely these days, lost so deeply inside himself, that they no longer expected him to respond to most conversation, direct or otherwise. They did not bother asking for more information. A look in his eyes could tell he was gone as quickly as he had come. 

"Not close enough for the tree, it would seem," Sansa muttered as Arya let her weapon fly once more. She was always doing this. Since her return, Sansa could not recall a time in which Arya had not been training of some sort. Flitting around with that ridiculous sword, Needle. Punishing bales of hay with a myriad of arrows. At times she was even unarmed, moving in ways that made it clear the girl was as much a weapon herself as any tool forged. She was dangerous and unpredictable. But she was also seemingly loyal, and one of the remnants of a family once safe behind these very walls. 

It was appropriate to be here again at the gates of Winterfell. It was where it had all started many years ago. So many years and so many dead. She remembered the warmth of the sun on her new dress. If anyone could ever really remember warmth. The nerves making a tumbling swirl out of her stomach. The King was coming. The Prince was coming. She had berated her poor serving girl into tears over getting her hair just right. She had been laced in and out of half a dozen gowns, desperately twirling in the mirror while trying to guess which would best catch Prince Joffrey's eye. Which would make her appear a woman though she had not flowered. If she tried very hard, she could nearly feel her brothers and sister beside her, strong and proud. Her father, serious but excited in his way. Her mother, tall and striking, confident and prepared for a royal visit. She could even nearly hear her mother's last whispers to her before their arrival, reminding her she was a lady and a Stark always. 

They would never stand together again. Never shoulder to shoulder, without a true worry in the world, their home at their backs and their bright futures ahead. Her father was dead, murdered before her very eyes for his loyalty to a friend and the crown. Her mother, murdered by enemies far from her children for her loyalty to her husband and home. Her brother Robb, who had teased her gently and lovingly, murdered at a wedding for his loyalty to love and their house. And poor baby Rickon, murdered by a madman for fear of loyalty just to his name. 

Sansa allowed her gaze to linger over Arya and Bran. The last wolves. A diminishing pack, and winter was coming. Loyalty was a weakness, Lord Baelish had counseled. Loyalty could get you killed. This was likely true for most, but it was all they had left. Ned Stark said so and would have reminded her now. Catelyn Stark would have told her to straighten her back and lift her chin, and to open their home graciously and cautiously. Robb would have teased her for looking so stern, and little Rickon she could not have guessed, frozen forever as a little boy in her mind. 

Her eyes strung briefly as she closed her eyes against a chill burst of wind. No time for such thoughts. Catelyn Stark could walk through those gates now and she would not recognize her children nor her broken home. Winterfell was a ruin, and her sons and daughters gone with their broken childhoods many moons ago. Her family was dead. She was not. And it was not a King the horns heralded through her gates, but a Dragon Queen. 

Jon came first. It was his home, bastard or not, and right that he should lead the way. Directly behind him came a beautiful woman, striking silver hair and shocking violet eyes. A waking nightmare. A Targaryen. A mythological monstrosity that existed only in tales from Old Nan, and the last of her kind. She was endangered too, and she had walked into a wolves' den. Sansa kept those thoughts firmly in her mind as the Queen paraded herself towards Winterfell. This was the home of wolves, not dragons, and Jon Snow would do well to remember it. Ice did not so easily give way to fire. Not here in the north. 

A smile forced its way onto her lips, and Sansa stepped slightly forward in preparation to greet her alleged new Queen. A blur of black interrupted her vision just shy of Jon Snow's outreached hand. Arya Stark had waited long enough. "Jon!" she yelled gleefully as she leapt in her brother's arms. It was the happiest she had sounded since her return. Her joy was echoed quickly with Jon's shout of laughter as he swung his little sister around. The Lady of Winterfell realized her smile was no longer quite so forced.

The Queen, taken aback initially by the improper greeting, turned once more towards the Starks and gathered household waiting for her. "Lady Sansa. Thank you for welcoming us to your home." Her voice was nearly irritatingly pleasant, Sansa thought, and devoid of accent for someone raised in far off lands. "I am Queen Danaerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, first of her name, Queen-"

"Of a great many things and peoples," Tyrion interjected smoothly. "And many more to come, surely," he added upon seeing his Queen's arched brow. "It is cold, your Majesty, and it was a long journey. My lady wife would gladly hear your full title in the warmth of her hall, I'm sure." 

Despite herself, Sansa felt genuine mirth at his statement. "Lord husband. You have been gone too long, I'm afraid. I have married since and am no longer yours."

"You were never mine, dear Lady," Tyrion responded while bowing respectfully. 

"No. Nor his either, and he was not half the man you are. I am widowed and my own once more." 

Sansa could see the Queen regard her coolly during the exchange. "I am also widowed," she responded. "Lost to a witch. How did you lose yours?"

"Torn apart by his own hounds in those very kennels not far from here. I lost nothing." For the briefest moment, Sansa felt almost an understanding pass between her and this Conqueress Then Jon interrupted as he introduced his siblings and his home to its new ruler and the moment disappeared. 

Sansa filed away how Jon's hand slid across Danaery's with familiarity, and how the two stood closer together than was appropriate. Baelish had not been idle in their time together, and she had learned to note these things in passing for use later. The air filled with easy chatter and tensions eased as the last of the Queen's entourage filed their way through the gates. There was a burly young man, dark and dirty, who Arya kept staring at from afar. The man seemed to avoid her gaze, but the blush upon his cheeks told another tale. Sansa could not begin to guess what that was about. 

Brienne stayed near her, vigilant as always, and stayed with her as she watched the ensure the gates closed safely behind her guests. Sansa's thoughts were on meal preparation and the many tasks she had to coordinate ahead when she felt a bolt of lightning in her stomach. Her body reacted before her mind realized who stood before her. There, with a face split between agony and anger just as she remembered, with down-turned lips he had pressed quickly against her own, was Sandor Clegane. The Hound. Her protector and savior, her would-be captor and tormentor, and then just her fading memory, standing in the doorway of her home. 

There was only the sound of the gate creaking closed behind him. A hush had fallen over everyone. Sansa's reaction had been visceral and apparent to all in attendance. Jon rushed towards them both as Sandor's dark eyes held Sansa's light ones. There was fire in her blood and ice in her veins and so much inside her she thought she would burst.

"Sansa, please, I know how this seems. I know what's he done. But he's made up for it and then some beyond the wall. He's a good man." Jon stared at his half-sister beseechingly. Begging, nearly, for a man who returned from the dead just to face them once more. 

The red-haired woman licked her lips and opened her mouth. Sandor had not moved a muscle. He seemed locked in her gaze and her parted lips. The Hound probably thought a chirp would come out. It would have to be a howl instead. She found her voice. "He is a good man. He tried to save me from the Lannisters once, though I would not go. He saved me from men intent to defile me, though it made no difference in the end. He even saved me from myself once, though I wish he had let me shove the bastard Joffrey Baratheon to his death and my own just the same. But he is a good man. Perhaps the only good man. And he is welcome in my home."

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
I greatly appreciated the response to my first chapter! I hope this time jump wasn't too confusing as I intend to bounce around the timeline. I struggle with characterization and would appreciate any and all tips. I can't thank you all enough for reading. I hope to update around once a week. Happy 2019 to you all!


	3. Chapter 3

He had not expected her to be here. 

An aching stomach had dragged Sandor from his bed to the kitchen. It wasn't for hunger. The unnatural events taking place not far enough north of Winterfell had plunged the world into the depths of winter. The Starks immediately called for meager rations, preparing for the longest wait in living memory for spring. Meals were just barely sufficient, mugs of ale deep enough just to take off the edge, and then just as quickly over. There was no extra available even for a man as big as himself. No, it wasn't hunger that called him to this place. It was the hearth and the roaring fire within it. The idea of warmth and light to chase away the increasingly long nights and the deepening dread making a pit in his belly. 

Even if it was her home, he had not expected her to be here. She was sitting directly in front of the hearth, staring into the flames, closer than she had been in years and yet further from him than ever. Sansa Stark. Sansa Bolton. Sansa Lannister. Little Bird. A silly girl flowered into a woman grown. Sandor had not thought to see her again. As he had left her in that tiny prison cell of a room in King's Landing, cursing them both for fools, he had been certain it was the last time he would look upon her. At the time his mind was shattered by wildfire and fear, and he hated her and her stubborn refusal to flee. Was he truly so horrible? Was death preferable to even a fortnight spent with the Hound?

After weeks with Arya, who bore no semblance to her sibling in face, deed, or manner, and many restless nights of endlessly replaying Sansa's rejection in his mind, Sandor was struck suddenly with clarity and understanding. Unfortunately this was also as he lay dying in a pool of his own blood, abandoned by the little bitch Stark who hadn't even cared enough for him to put him out of his misery. A fitting end for a Clegane; murdered by a child with a piss ant sword named Needle. After all that bullshit muttering each night about a list of names, she couldn't even do it in the end. Still, it gave him time to think. As he should have been spluttering the names of the Gods between blood-stained lips, instead he found her name slipping out. Sansa. His little bird. She stayed in King's Landing, not out of fear or rejection of him. Out of hope. She had looked out across burning waters and still saw salvation. She had looked at his burned face and saw yet another captor. For so long all he had seen in this life was death. He could not have grasped how she had looked at Blackwater Bay and saw life. 

Sandor was brought back to the present as the Lady of Winterfell shifted in her seat just enough to realize she was not alone. She turned to him, surprised, and let out a small gasp. This seemed to embarrass her, but in the glow of the firelight he could not tell if her cheeks flushed red. He recalled the shade well, and recalled even greater its affect on him. 

Silence stretched between them, cavernous and cold. They had not spoken since the day of his arrival. Truly he had barely even seen her. There had been too much to do. There were dragon glass weapons to be forged, peasants to be rounded up, supplies to be collected and inventoried. Wood chopping and gathering alone required more healthy men than were available. Sandor fortunately was easily more than one man, and his experience in battle and wood chopping alike made him invaluable. He had thrown himself into the work, and thrown himself into bed as fervently each night, closing his eyes and wishing to see only darkness behind closed lids. Exhaustion chased away thought. Thought brought only fear, and fear tightened his stomach, stole his breath, and weakened his resolve. The dead were coming. Coming so much faster than they hoped. And they came behind a King on the back of a dragon.

Sansa broke the silence first. Ever polite. "Excuse me...", she hesitated, likely uncertain what to call him. "I didn't expect to see anyone else so late. Is there something amiss with your room? I can have a maid fix it immediately. You will need all the rest you can get. Jon intends to leave at first light."

Sandor reminded himself he was speaking with the Lady of Winterfell now. Surely some amount of courtly manners had been absorbed by accident after years of service to the King. "No, my Lady. Nothing is 'amiss'." His mouth quirked a little, mocking her painfully delicate wording out of habit, and he felt the knot in his stomach tighten slightly. "I can't sleep. Nothing you can do will help. Few men can truly sleep before a battle."

An echo of his own smirk crossed her red lips. "My Lady, is it? Not little bird?"

Clegane winced openly and repentantly. "I shouldn't have called you that."

Sansa shrugged, her woolen dress pulling in ways she could not have understood were alluring to a depraved man like himself. "You were right. All I did was chirp and sing empty little songs. I performed for them and tried to look pretty and sat in my gilded cage. I was a childish little bird and nothing more."

Anger rose in him, as violent as it was shocking. "You were just a girl," he growled, manners already forgotten. "You were trying to survive."

"I was a **stupid** girl," she countered, anger rising in her just as quickly. "I was a little idiot who thought princes were charming, and knights were good, and the world was just and fair. I thought if I said the right things and bowed the right way and prayed properly just enough each night, I would be a precious little princess, crowned and adored. I though Joffrey would love me. Love me! I was so painfully naive, and it cost my father his life."

He could have let it go, and gone to bed, and let the anger fade into sleep and then into bitter nothingness. But a hound can never let things go. "You were what you were raised to be. You did all the right things, and the world fucked you for it. That's life. Your mother and father prepared you for the life they wanted you to have. They couldn't have prepared you for this one."

Sansa's cheeks now matched her hair. Tully temper in full effect. A woman's quiet rage simmered under her pale flesh. "Couldn't they?! Did my father not ride into battle after my grandfather and uncle were burned to death by this Dragon Queen's own father? Did my aunt not die in her brother's arm after being kidnapped and raped? Children were murdered and thrown at the on ground you and I have walked upon. They raised me for a fairytale, and then they died. They died and left me alone to figure out life's not a song, and nobody is good, and the world will end in ice and darkness no matter what battles were fought and won."

Sandor felt the silence sink into his bones once more. Her words shaped the real fear between them. The real reason they couldn't sleep and were drawn to the light of the fire. The real reason they were angry and yelling at each other in the semi-darkness. Death was coming. The Wall was gone. A creature straight from children's bedtime stories marched towards them, inexorably onward, mindless and hateful. They could not even claim to have the advantage of dragons at this point. So did they. Night was coming, and life was ending. Cruel, relentless life was slipping between their fingers and between heartbeats, and both Sandor and Sansa were surprised to find they desperately wanted to cling to it. To fight. To wake up miserable and grumbling once more. To see the sun rise on a world of green with just as many awful people in it as the day before. It was a horrible thing to want so deeply the thing you had hated so long.

Sansa dropped her gaze and hands slightly, half-moons cut into her palms from her nails. A single tear trailed down her face, and Sandor knew she resented even that display of weakness escaping her. "I should have gone with you." Sandor felt the knot in his stomach somehow tighten and loosen a little all at once. Even a hint of warmth, if he dared allowed himself feel it. Sansa's blue eyes met his again, steady and free of any weakness she had allowed herself. "I thought about it often. And I should have gone with you. But I was so scared, and I thought there was a chance Stannis would win the battle." She smiled then, although with such self-loathing he knew it wasn't from happiness. "I didn't know anything about battles then. I still don't. But I should have gone, and you were very brave to try to save me. I was just too terrified, especially after the kiss."

"Kiss?" Sandor's brow furrowed so deeply and quickly it hurt his scarred face. He winced as he frowned, and it delayed him just a second too long. "What ki-"

"What are you two doing awake? And what are you doing here, for that matter?" Both Sandor and Sansa startled at this interruption, and neither bothered to hide their scowls.

"Arya. Please make some sort of noise when you approach people. The way you walk everywhere now is just... unnatural." Snark was an easy way to throw off being taken by surprise. It was a tactic Sandor was familiar with, and one Sansa wielded expertly.

Arya was seemingly unaffected, which appeared to be her permanent demeanor now. Sandor heard whispers of where the youngest Stark daughter had disappeared off to, and if he knew anything about her then they were underselling it if anything. "I heard raised voices. An army of men could have approached without you noticing, undead or otherwise, as loud as you were."

Sandor saw Sansa's jaw tighten in the same way it had many times before in King Joffrey's court. A sharp tongue in its own gilded cage. The Lady of Winterfell had learned the hard way when to strike and when to simper. "The conversation is finished, anyway. It is late, and all of our soldiers will need their rest. We should all retire."

A straightforward dismissal if there ever was one, and without room for him to pursue this talk of a kiss. What kiss? Sandor turned towards the doorway, already lost in reverie. He hadn't kissed her that night. He had wanted to, certainly. He had done it many times when imagining the events again in his mind. But he had most definitely not had the bollocks to kiss her that night in her room with screaming men and duty pounding just steps behind him. 

"Hound." Arya called abruptly. Sandor turned to her wearily, suddenly longing for the bed he had left behind so eagerly not long before. "I see the God of Death didn't find you worth the effort of collecting on that roadside." Well, certainly not an apology, though he would never expect one from her.

"No, he didn't. Disappointed? You should have taken your chance while you had it, little girl. I'll let every undead bastard tear my heart out before I give you another shot."

Dark brown eyes stared so piercingly into his that Sandor had to will himself not to swallow or blink or show any sign of the fear shivering through his body. It was just a moment, but he felt he had been weighed and measured in his entirety. A smile, dark and brilliant, spread across the small warrior's lips. "I don't need one." 

With that, Arya and Sansa retreated until he could not determine what was Stark and what was darkness, and Sandor climbed gratefully towards his last restful night of peaceful oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I so greatly appreciate everyone's feedback so far! I hope to reply to comments in time, but I am an admittedly slow writer and am trying to stay roughly on a weekly schedule. I hope I did warn everyone that I am mixing media, and so I am taking bits from the show and bits from the books. I love "the kiss" confusion in the books, and just had to feature it here. I am very open to constructive criticism, and I am particularly concerned with attempting to say true to characterization as much as possible. I did realize that by time April rolls around most of my speculative scenes in the future will have a canon version to go with them! Thank you all so much for reading.


	4. Chapter 4

_And who are you, the proud Lord said, that I must bow so low?_ The mocking words echoed in Sansa's mind, the haunting melody lingering, as she stared down at the golden-handed Kingslayer. The same hand he'd used to cut down Danaerys's father now replaced by a brazen trophy. A false exterior to match the hollow interior. Rumor was Jaime Lannister was no fit match now that he was but half a man. Though Tyrion himself took offense, as he stated he was the only half-man allowed in the family. The Stark home was forced to play host to no end of enemies, it seemed. A Targaryen and a Lannister. If the Freys hadn't been butchered, perhaps they could have joined as well. She would have them boarded in the crypts of Winterfell, left to seek sleep under the stony gaze of her ancestors. 

Brienne of Tarth stood awkwardly alongside Jaime. Closer than entirely proper, she noted, but not overly familiar either. A strained friendship, maybe, or a failed tryst. They had developed an unlikely alliance during their travels, though the details were a mystery. Her sworn sword had not felt the need to share these intimacies with the Lady of House Stark, but it had become her business to gather as much detail as possible. Secrets were a commodity. Connections were weaknesses lying in wait. Sansa did not have to be as cruel as Little Finger, but she wanted to be as clever. More so, really. considering it was his blood staining the stone beneath her feet.

"You come alone. That is neither wise nor useful, brother, and our reputation does not need further tarnishing on either front." Tyrion's words were as welcoming as he could be in a hall of angry, anxious people. "If you're not careful, you'll go down in the white book as Jaime the Single-Handed."

To his credit, the elder Lannister seemed entirely unfazed to be surrounded by enemies who despised him. At this point, she could only assume it was the only way a Lannister knew how to live. "I'll go down as the Kingslayer and we both know it. Nothing I do from here on out will change that. I made a choice. I don't regret it." The former Kingsguard looked directly at Danaerys Targeryen and Jon Snow as he said this. Bold. Stupid, but bold. Sansa thought Danaerys's eyebrow was so arched it must ache. Her hands were clenched around the throne, her knuckles as white as the furs wrapped around her shoulders. Would Sansa get to see what it was to 'wake the dragon' before they marched off to face the Night King? It would nearly be worth this travesty of a meeting.

"If only it was just one decision, Ser Jaime." Jon spoke first. "We have not forgotten this long feud began with you shoving my brother Bran from a window for catching you rooting your own sister." A small murmur came from those assembled. Blunt words. No back-handed compliments here. This was the talk of soldiers, not courtiers. Bran sat in the corner, uninterested and unaffected as always. Sansa nearly felt a laugh rise in her throat at the thought that crippled Bran seemed the least offended by Jaime's sudden appearance at the gate this morning. Too little sleep and too much stress. She bit her lip slightly and allowed the pain to tether her to the present. No laughter in these halls, now or maybe ever. 

The red and gold armor glinted beautifully as the former Kingsguard squared his shoulders. "I'm sorry," he announced. "I am, whether you want to hear it or not. For the boy. Not for your father, Danaerys. He had that coming." Brienne shifted uncomfortably, surely torn between shutting Jaime up and protecting him from all those who would in her place. Danaerys looked like a storm brewed inside her, but still she said nothing. "I come alone, and it's going to stay that way." Here the man finally looked nearly ashamed. "Cersei will not send our armies."

This news sent a small shock wave through the hall. All of that work they had gone through to convince the Southron Lords. Jon and his men had nearly lost their lives. Beric Dondarrion **had** lost his life, and a dragon gone to the enemy as well. All sacrificed to obtain a wight to sway the insane, false Queen on her stolen throne, and it had been for naught. Sansa felt bile push its way into her throat. She swallowed it down to accompany the pit of despair ever present inside. Let them be bedfellows and friends during these final days. Let the cold take her in the night, then, and bring her safely to the arms of her Mother and Father before her. Let this mummer's farce of a rebellion be ended. 

A grumbling voice was heard above the others. "We didn't expect the bitch to keep her word anyway." It was all Sandor Clegane had said that morning. It was all he would say all day. It was enough. A few grunts of agreement bounced around the crowded hall. Gruff and inappropriate beat eloquent and empty any day. Sansa felt her sorrow ease up. The South was full of summer's children. The North was all they needed.

Danaerys Targeryen stood. She was a small woman, but her presence was commanding and imposing all the same. "We were not counting on your sister to uphold her word. We do not count on the Lannisters for honor." Jaime Lannister jerked back as though struck, and bowed his head slightly. No argument could ever be spoken on his behalf. Not in this home surrounded by these families, orphaned and broken by his hand. "Tell me why I should allow you to fight alongside me? You, who is named for his greatest treachery. You, who swore fealty to many dead kings. You are not fit to be here with these men. You are barely fit to feed my children. I should strip you of that ridiculous armor, walk you naked and ashamed as your sister into the courtyard, and see you burned to death by my dragons. Let your house be ended. Let the bards sing of that instead while we send your golden hand to your bitch lover with her false crown." Danaerys's violet eyes were nearly aflame, and in them was a touch of the madness Jaime had witnessed years before when he had plunged home his weapon and forged his destiny in a King's life blood. _Have the Gods flipped a coin?_ Sansa's mind whispered in fear.

"No!" Bran Stark spoke just as fiercely as the Dragon Queen from his small corner of the room. All eyes turned upon the crippled boy, both heir and irrelevant all at once. Sansa had not seen such a painful sanity in his eyes since his return. He seemed nearly to burn with energy, he was suddenly so present and strong in this moment. "He has his part to play. You will let him ride north and face his destiny." The words seared with prophecy and sealed Jaime Lannister's fate. And just like that, Bran seemed to crumple in upon himself and was gone once more. Lost to other moments in other worlds. 

A hand placed gently by Jon upon the blonde Queen's back seemed to bring her to herself. She diminished only slightly as she looked up at Jon for just a second. It was enough. When she turned to face the assembled men once more, she seemed to be the strong Valerian leader rather than the seething Targaryen. Sansa would never forget what was under the surface should rage push her far enough. Another lesson learned.

"Come." It was a command if they ever heard one, and everyone in the hall followed behind the Queen of Dragons and the King in the North as they marched towards the door.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

After all of the excitement of Jaime Lannister's arrival, it was nearly a letdown as Sansa watched those she loved mount up for war. Preparations were finalized yesterday. Supplies were in place. Jon had already said his proper goodbyes to Bran, Arya, and herself the day before, promising to return their home and their hopes in the near future. His words were heartfelt, but nearly ritualistic. Sansa could not tell how much Jon truly believed what he was saying. Arya certainly hadn't bought it, as she had nearly wept arguing with her brother as he told her she must stay behind. A Stark must always be in Winterfell. Sansa would need help. Someone needed to guard her life, and even she could not argue that she was physically capable of doing so. She had not seen Arya since then, and she had not come to the gates to say her goodbyes.

Sansa was nearly knocked to the snow. "Pardon, my Lady," an unfamiliar and dirty young man said, winking playfully at her as he walked towards his horse. She was so taken aback she did not even have time to scold the individual for his careless and inappropriate behavior before he was lost in the crowd. What a hopeless bunch of ruffians their were all counting on.

A calm swept over those gathered. It was time. They must depart and head north, to ride for ruin and the red dawn. Sansa drew a breath deep inside herself and held it. She allowed fear to wash over her. Grief, too. She took in Jon's appearance. Not quite like their father, but dark and strong and familiar. Her brother. She would miss him so deeply. She wanted him desperately to live. The Queen beside him. She was beautiful and terrifying and too young for death. She drank in Brienne, faithful and stalwart, and Podrick, more faithful still. He should not be facing this enemy. He should be laughing and training alongside boys just like him, gossiping about girls and drinking his nights away. She would miss even Tyrion, who had been so kind in his own way. A light in the darkness. He deserved better than this. They all did.

She allowed herself to look last upon Sandor Clegane. Not intentionally, she told herself. He was just one of many leaving her today. Yet she allowed herself to acknowledge he too would leave a small hole in her heart. How had she ever found his scarred face so terrifying? It had proven to be her shelter more than once. He had shielded her from all that he could, and at the risk of his own life more than once. A knight straight from the stories he had mocked her for enjoying. His eyes met hers across the distance, and neither looked away. He nodded to her slightly, the smallest movement of his head. She returned the gesture with a small smile. It was nothing, and yet she would cherish it for the few days she had left to her.

Then it was done. The horses were turning away. The horn was blowing. They were leaving. She stood out in the cold, Bran beside her, and watched as so many rode away from her. She watched even though her hands ached in the chill, and her nose ran, and her eyes burned with unwept tears. She stood in awe as she saw the dragons fly out to meet their mother and ride watchfully over, and she would not go in until she could no longer see them soaring in the distance. Off they went with the last of her hope and the pieces of her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've really enjoyed the feedback I've received. This is a rather short chapter, all in all, but I felt it a necessary scene even if it's minimal interaction between characters. I do have a newfound respect for authors as it's amazing how long it can take to only get a few paragraphs out. Please let me know what you think. I really enjoy reading what everyone has to say. I hope you all are safe and warm. Thank you!


	5. Chapter 5

Sandor's grim features barely warmed despite being nearly pressed to the small fire in front of him. A lifetime of avoiding flames only to huddle near their embrace for hours here at the end. There was more light than heat so far north, but both brought a small comfort the imposing man was unwilling to abandon. He watched the way the light danced off his sword as he methodically cleaned and sharpened it. It was not necessary as it had seen no action the past week in the standoff with the Night King, but it was at least something to do besides shiver and piss and shiver again. The rhythm and familiarity of it kept his hands busy and his mind mercifully blank.

A shadow fell across his sword, though not much of one. He continued his sharpening, stone against metal, and waited for the inevitable words to come tumbling out. The Imp abhorred silence. Yet it was an unexpectedly long stretch of quiet before the little man spoke. 

"What are you doing, Clegane?" Tyrion ventured.

Sandor gave him a dark look. A disappointing start after so much deliberation. "What does it look like I'm doing? What are _you_ doing? I thought you learned your lesson at the Battle of Blackwater Bay. You aren't meant for battlefields. Are you trying to end up as ugly as me?"

Tyrion felt his hand reach towards his scar automatically, but he willed his hand to return to his side before touching the puckered skin. He smirked and nodded his head. One couldn't really expect a pleasant conversation with the Hound under the best conditions, and these were certainly a far cry from the best. He shrugged off the words and soldiered on. "I wanted to be here. It's as simple as that." Sandor's bemused grunt did not deter him. "Truly I did. I've spent plenty of my life waiting behind walls. Watching for ravens. Reading books of greater people doing greater deeds. I wanted to see it myself this time. I wanted to be able to say I saw it. I would like to give my own account of the battle for the dawn. I would like to write it when all this is finished." 

The Hound had not looked up from his weapon, but his hands had stilled. He was as deathly bored and lonely as the rest of them, and even irritating company was more desirable than the cold and nothingness. Tyrion pressed his luck. "What are you going to do, Clegane?" Sandor glanced up, confused. "After."

"After? _After?_ There won't be an after. This is it. We are going to sit here in the snow and our own shit waiting for this bloody bastard to decide to finally charge and end us all. And then there is nothing _after_." Sandor drove his sword home in its scabbard. He thought about stalking away, disinterested in further conversation. But any which way he looked there were just more miserably cold people whimpering and moaning and waiting for death. He could walk a mile away and end up in the same situation. He might as well stay by the fire and let the irritation warm his blood.

The Lannister was painfully undeterred. "Fine. So you plan to die. Just amuse me for a moment and tell me what your plans were if none of this had happened. Use that brooding mind of yours. What were your hopes as Kingsguard? You were rather good at it, all dead kings and abandoned battles considered. Yet you left. What were you going to do?" Tyrion sat uncomfortably on a log across the fire, put his head in his hand, and waited primly. 

Sandor sighed. "You are an irritating git, you know that?"

"I do," Tyrion replied cheerfully.

The Hound barely paused to think. He was no talker, but the words came tumbling out of him as easily as if he had been drunk on wine and women, although he had seen nor had either in ages. "I had no plan. I just... ran. I thought I was going to live my life taking care of that little inbred fucker." Tyrion's mouth pulled downwards slightly, but Sandor offered no apology and the Hand knew better than to expect one. "I stumbled onto Arya, and that helped. Then I knew I could take her back to the Starks for at least a little gold. But then you bastards messed that all up at the bloody wedding."

"I had nothing-", Tyrion spluttered.

"I know. Not your style. Shut up." Sandor forged on, ignoring the sudden appearance of yet another golden-haired, arrogant Lannister. "We traveled and we trained. She was quick, even with that stupid nicknamed sword of hers. Pinprick or whatever the hell. I tried to sell her off to her Aunt, but then she was as dead as the rest of her family. Then I ran into damn Brienne of Tarth and they both left me for dead. I was picked up by a monk who nursed me back to healthy while constantly talking nonsense. You would have liked him." Tyrion smiled faintly, but it faded just as quickly as the tale went on. "But then shortly he was fucking dead too. Dead with the other villagers. I fell my way into Thoros and Dondarrion, and now here I am. North of warmth, of wine, and of sense, in a bullshit field with people I've hated my whole life waiting for some undead asshole to finish the job my brother started. I have never had a plan."

It wasn't a happy story, and in another time it might have been met with sober expressions and understanding. This was war, however, so instead it was met with peals of laughter. Jaime and Tyrion both cackled under the stars, and the light bounced warmly in their eyes and off of the golden hand. Sandor felt a laugh break its way out of his mouth as well, and for once he allowed himself to embrace it. Death was a silly bitch, and she could listen to them enjoy what time they had left. 

"I wondered who had a hand in our little assassin," Jaime mused as they all slowly calmed down from their near hysteria. "She is good. Good enough to sneak her way into an army of men, anyway." It had been a week out from Winterfell when Arya had finally revealed herself. She had been disguised as a generic male villager. No one had given her a second glance. Sandor was amused, even if no one else was.

"Jon was livid," Tyrion chuckled once more. "It's the most emotion I've seen out him during this march."

"He's really more into sullen looks and brooding, that one," Jaime agreed. "You would think being buried in a warm woman each night would have improved his mood." 

Tyrion attempted a reproachful look, but failed. Jaime nudged his brother with his golden hand. "Think he will give us a turn?"

Tyrion swiped at his brother and Sandor allowed himself another bellowing laugh. They were good men, even for Lannisters. At his worst, Jaime had been a formidable and admirable knight worthy of his position. Tyrion too had been the most tolerable and entertaining of all the King's Court, and the memory of the slaps he had bestowed upon Joffrey still made Sandor smile. War made brothers of all men, so long as they were on the same side. 

"Speaking of plans, Clegane, I have one for you." Sandor lifted an eyebrow at the eldest Lannister, intrigued despite himself. "That brother of yours. The Mountain. I don't know what my sister did to him, but he's a monst-"

"He was always a monster." 

Jaime paused just a moment at the abrupt interruption, and then nodded in agreement. "Yes. He was. But he's especially so now. When all of this is done, I plan to return to Kings Landing." Jaime intentionally avoided his brother's gaze, which was a fierce scowl of disapproval. "I plan to return promptly and to remove the Mountain from Cersei's side. But I'll need help."

"I'll come." The two words rang out like an oath from the burned man, and both Lannisters nodded solemnly. Sandor had lied before. Gregor's death had always been his plan. His whole life dedicated to kinslaying since childhood. Perhaps he would survive this after all, as a part of him knew one Clegane would die at the hands of the other before all of this was through. 

A great roar rang out over the camp. It was terrifying and tremendous, but it not entirely new. The dragons, Drogon and Rhaegal, soared overhead one after the other. At first it appeared they were hunting, but they continued to chase after each other in the night sky. The men watched entranced as Drogon raced ahead of Rhaegal, then slowed, and then both fell towards the ground together in an intricate spiral. They each spread their wings shy of hitting the ground and soared upwards once more. It was beautiful, even to a man as broken as Sandor Clegane. 

"What are they doing?" Sandor finally asked after the dragons continued their dance off in the distance, now too far to appreciate.

Tyrion sighed and swallowed for the first time in minutes. "I... do not know. I wish I did. Not much is known about dragons. Perhaps it is a sign."

"Perhaps," Jaime agreed.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Hound awoke hours later to another sound. A reverberating, horrible horn that called out three times. It was time. They were coming. After a week of waiting, the Night King was finally crossing the long stretch between them. Sandor was ready. He was terrified. He wanted to run and to hide and to kill. He wanted to win. He wanted to kill his brother. 

He wanted to go back to Sansa at Winterfell.

The Hound pulled his sword from his scabbard and fell into battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am terribly sorry for the long time gap. I really want to avoid that as much as possible. I plan to be much more prompt in the future. This is unfortunately a very light chapter in regards to romantic development. My original plan was to solely focus on scenes with Sansa/Sandor with other characters thrown in. However, I find I'm enjoying fleshing out some scenes and interactions with multiple characters.
> 
> I have loved every bit of feedback and review. Please let me know your thoughts and suggestions for improvement. Thank you!

**Author's Note:**

> A mix of both the television series and the books. An attempt at the series of events that take place after the war against the Others. Heavily featuring Sansa Stark and Sandor Clegane, but with a large cast of characters mixed in. Almost certainly going to be happier overall than George R. R. Martin intends.


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